


a confession of ancestry

by Winter_Lantern



Series: a soft place to fall [1]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crushes, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Rare Pairings, The Author Regrets Nothing, Unresolved Romantic Tension, the chapel dweller's issues make an entrance, the hunter is a cainhurst survivor, the hunter thinks that kindness is the most attractive trait
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-22 15:24:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15584892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_Lantern/pseuds/Winter_Lantern
Summary: oedon chapel's dweller has shown the hunter more kindness than he is used to, but the man feels that he is taking advantage of it. he wants to rectify that, even if it means the dweller may never want to see him again.





	a confession of ancestry

**Author's Note:**

> wasn't sure if i wanted my first longer fic on here to be something this uhh strange--BUT i'm here to have fun and the chapel dweller is an absolute sweetheart who deserves good things! ! ! so i'm gonna give him some ༼- ౪ ◕✿༽ 
> 
> so hmm....important notes- my hunter oc here was a resident of cainhurst and left before logarius showed up. he's related to the noble family, doesn't consider himself a vileblood, and basically travels around doing good deeds to make up for all the vampire (or whatever) stuff his family was doing before they all got heckin' murdered.
> 
>  
> 
> also!! ysay-art on tumblr drew some [amazing fanart](https://ysay-fanart.tumblr.com/post/179836778709/good-soul-a-part-of-the-dweller-wants-to-snatch) for this!! you should go check it out!

“Ahh, the hunter! You’ve returned.” 

 

“I have indeed,” the hunter responds as his head turns towards the chapel dweller. His voice is muffled by his helm, but his tone is light and airy. Full of relief and, if the dweller is not mistaken, perhaps even joy.

 

And, oh, the thought of the hunter's happiness stemming from his return to the chapel is enough to put a smile on the dweller’s face! 

 

“I am afraid that I am in need of rest,” the hunter continues as he steps closer. “The night does not seem to be ending anytime soon, and I’d rather not find myself weary at the wrong moment.”

 

“Oh, of course. You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like!”

 

He’s thanked for the words and the pleasant bubble in the dweller’s chest swells. He has told the hunter the same thing before yet he is thanked all the same each time as though he hasn’t. Such politeness is a rarity in times like these – even more so when it is aimed at him. It makes him appreciate this man all the more.

 

He closes his eyes to bask in the feeling for a few more seconds, until the man’s voice speaks out again.

 

The dweller opens his eyes and follows his voice, and finds the hunter standing near the railing that separates the raised entrance area from the rest of the chapel. “Where is the elderly woman I sent here?”

 

“Oh, she’s quite well. Just a bit tired it seemed. She asked for a place to lie down and I offered her one of the rooms down in the livin’ quarters.”

 

Something in the hunter’s posture seems to relax when he hears that. 

 

The dweller find that a bit curious. “Is something the matter?”

 

“No, no of course not. That is something of a relief to be honest.” The hunter turns to face the dweller. “It is only that I wish to speak with you about something and I would prefer privacy for it.” 

 

Something about that phrase, be it the tone it had been delivered with or the words themselves, causes the dweller’s heart to sink. 

 

He fears that he has upset the hunter, fears that he is about to be told off or threatened or – and perhaps even worse – told in a polite yet cold voice that he has no desire to associate with the dweller any longer.

 

He’s heard it all before of course, but something about hearing any of that from this particular man saddens the dweller greatly.

 

“Have I… done something?”

 

“Oh, oh no.” The hunter steps away from the railing, moving towards the dweller. “You have done nothing wrong, I can assure you. This is entirely about me.” He sighs softly, the noise made strangely hollow by the metal covering his face. “You see, I do not feel as though I have been honest with you.”

 

“W-what do you mean?”

 

The hunter seems to shrink into himself despite his armor and his helm tips downwards. It is difficult for the dweller to read people when they are dressed in such garb, yet he thinks that there is shame written in the body language of this man. “A lie by omission is still a lie,” the hunter responds in explanation. “I wish to rectify that, and I – I am hoping that you will continue to open your doors to me afterwards.” 

 

Concern passes over the dweller’s face. “S-surely any lie you’ve told isn’t that terrible. These things can be forgiven, heh heh…”

 

But the dweller isn’t so sure of his own words, even if he finds the hunter’s hard to believe. The man has been kind, and had even taken the dweller’s request to invite others to the chapel to heart, but what did he truly know about the hunter? He was a stranger – a foreigner – and while the dweller felt that it was not his place or in his disposition to judge anyone, he has seen what horrible things often shadowed a hunt. 

 

Considering how this one had lasted for a rather unusual amount of time… Who knew what secrets the hunter could be hiding?

 

The hunter seems to consider the dweller’s words. “That is what I am hoping for.”

 

He reaches up, grasping his helmet in both hands. Pausing, he takes a deep breath before letting it out and lifting the helm from his head.

 

Silver hair comes tumbling out of it, long and shiny and falling well past the hunter's shoulders. He shakes it out, bangs falling over his forehead so delicately it's as though the Gods themselves had placed each strand. The skin of his young face is like alabaster that has been rubbed smooth and almost appears to be glowing in the soft light flooding into the cathedral through its tall windows. As though he had been created in the Paleblood moon’s image itself. 

 

The hunter’s eyes, filled with the same tumultuous pale grays of the rainclouds that often float over Yharnam, find the dweller's own, and he is convinced that he is beholding an angel.

 

The chapel dweller lowers his head and averts his eyes.

 

“You look away.”

 

His voice is soft without the helmet blocking it, and chimes like the tinkling of the Church’s handheld bells that had rung out so often before this long hunt had begun.

 

He thinks he hears disappointment in his tone – which makes no sense to the dweller because no one has _ever_ seemed disappointed in his lack of eye contact – but to think that he has upset the hunter hurts. His long fingers interlink and twist themselves into knots and his shoulders hunch inwards, as though he can hide within himself. 

 

Clothing and metal shift and the dweller can see the hunter move to kneel before him out of the corner of his eye. He wants to stop the hunter from lowering himself, from degrading himself by putting them on equal ground, but finds himself unable to speak the words.

 

“Why do you look away?”

 

Fingertips reach out and come to rest just beneath the dweller's chin. Not tugging or pulling, only resting against his skin. He can feel the warmth from the hunter’s flesh even through the smooth leather of his gloves. The dweller desires nothing more than to turn his head and press his undeserving face into his palm.

 

“Is who I am truly so horrible?”

 

“No,” the dweller gasps out, pained by the mere thought. “I ‘aven’t any idea who you are. I only—”

 

 _I only find myself unworthy to gaze at you,_ but he finds that to be uncomfortably awkward, even if it is true.

 

The hunter is silent for a long moment. 

 

A part of the dweller wants to snatch a glimpse of him again (so he can gauge his expression, but also so he can see the hunter’s beautiful face once more before he replaces his helm) but thinks better of it. The spot on the floor his vision has focused on is safe. There is no possibility of it judging him, of it forming an expression of disgust, or worse, _pity_. 

 

Because surely that is all he will see if he looks back at the hunter. He cannot imagine anything else, and to allow himself to try and do so would be a foolish venture. He will not get his hopes up only to have them dashed against the sharp edges of a frown.

 

The hunter removes his hand from his chin and that sends an ache through the dweller's chest, but the man has not yet started to move away.

 

“People oft look upon me and see only my lineage," the hunter begins. "They see the wrongs performed by others, wrongs that I have nothing to do with.”

 

Gloved fingers brush over his own, and the dweller flinches. But the touch does not disappear or turn harsh, and the hunter slowly begins unknitting his clenched fingers before taking one of the dweller's hands in each of his own. The realization that he – _they_ – are holding hands is a terrifying comfort. He can feel himself holding his breath, trembling, though he does not quite know why, as the hunter's thumbs brush over his knuckles in slow strokes.

 

“Those who do not see beneath my helm still hear a foreigner who has not the right to be here. People are not kind, and those who are would change their tone once they knew where I am from. But you!”

 

The dweller hunches further at the quiet awe in the hunter’s voice, uncomfortable with such a thing being aimed at him.

 

“You are a well of generosity! You open your home to me when no one else will, and all that you ask is that I offer that same gift to those sane enough to accept it. It is commendable and it is admirable! It is also something I will not allow myself to take advantage of…”

 

Such kind words! It is enough to cause tears to well up in the corners of the dweller’s eyes. This hunter is a blessing to this hellish place, truly. To imagine anyone turning this man away or even threatening him because of how he looks or who his family is seems like a higher form of absurdity.

 

Though perhaps – and it pains him fiercely to even entertain the thought – those people had known something he hadn’t.

 

He turns his head and makes himself look the hunter in the face. A small yet encouraging smile is his reward and it makes his heart feel as if it’s battering the inside of his ribcage. It makes what he is about to ask all the harder to say.

 

“Hunter…” the dweller begins with a frown, nervous fingers twitching in the other man’s grip. “W-what is your lineage, that it would cause you so much trouble?”

 

It is the hunter who looks away this time, a sadness filling his eyes. As though he expects to be tossed out as soon as he answers the question. It makes the dweller wish to do a bit of hunting himself, go out and find each person who had treated this man so poorly and give them a few words on courtesy.

 

A quiet sigh escapes the hunter, bringing the dweller's attention back to him as he speaks. “Have you ever heard of the Vilebloods?”

 

The dweller feels as though he has. The word sounds familiar, but only in the way that a subject in an overheard conversation would sound familiar. He thinks on it for a moment, his eyes taking in the sight of the other man’s hair and skin. Slowly things click into place. A snippet of conversation floats across his thoughts, along with a score of dull blue cloaks and a pointed, golden pyramid shape.

 

“I will admit that I ‘ave,” the dweller replies. A pained expression passes over the hunter’s face and the dweller’s stomach immediately sinks. He gives the man’s hands a squeeze in comfort, causing pale eyes meet his again. “I still wouldn’t turn any of ‘em away though, so long as they didn’t hurt anyone.” He ends the sentence with a smile, and the hunter’s eyes widen as his mouth opens in a quiet gasp.

 

Then the dweller is being squished chest to chest with the hunter, who’s arms have wrapped around him in a tight hug.

 

“ _Thank you_ ,” the hunter whispers, his warm breath tickling the shell of the dweller’s ear and making a shiver run down his spine. He can feel the hot warmth of a blush spreading over his face and down his neck. He tries not to focus on that as he carefully wraps his own arms around the hunter.

 

“It’s no trouble really.” The dweller barely manages to get the words out past the lump in his throat. When was the last time anyone had given him such physical contact? Had there ever been a time?

 

When the hunter pulls back to gaze at him he’s sure that he’ll melt under the brightness of his smile. Not even the sun has touched the cold streets of Yharnam with such a brilliance.

 

The hunter seems so different now, and he has to admit that he rather enjoys it. He's always been cordial with the dweller in the past – even quite friendly, truthfully – but now it’s like his whole face has been lit up like a lantern by his own joy.

 

“You know, I have only now realized that I have not given you my name.” One of his hands slips from the dweller’s back to land on his own chest as he continues speaking with a sort of breathless excitement. “I am Marion.”

 

“Hunter Marion…” The name dances across the dweller's tongue light as a feather, much lighter than the birds that have taken up fluttering around in his chest. It’s a lovely name.

 

The hunter’s – Marion’s – cheeks start to darken to a deep pink and his eyes shift downwards, his smile turning shy.

 

Surely he had not spoken that out loud?

 

“Thank you.”

 

Oh. He had. The dweller can feel his own face burning, but surely – hopefully – his blush does not show up as well as Marion’s on his darker skin.

 

“That’s very kind of you to say. I am not oft allowed the privilege of introducing myself. Especially now with this hunt and how it… has changed people.”

 

The single mention of the hunt seems to shift Marion’s mood. His relaxed manner disappears as his face takes on a more pensive expression. The dweller considers saying something to lighten the mood but decides against it. He does not know what horrors the hunter has faced this night, and he will not interrupt him if he needs to be alone with his thoughts.

 

But it is only a few moments more when Marion shakes his head with a rueful smile, turning his attention back to the dweller.

 

“I am trying to get away from that and here I am bringing it up. You have my apologies, I did not mean to digress onto such a dark topic. I do believe that I have not asked for your name either.”

 

The dweller blinks. It’s not a question he’s ever been asked before. He realizes that it is now him who is about to delve into an uncomfortable topic and titters nervously. “Ah, well, you ‘aven’t but – I don’t ‘ave one.”

 

Marion’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, and his smile shifts to a concerned frown. “You do not?”

 

“N-no…” the dweller replies. “My mother she, well, didn’t think I would make it, you see. If you understand my meaning. Then when I got sent here as a boy nobody ever really thought to give me one, including myself.”

 

He watches as Marion’s expression falls.

 

The dweller shifts uncomfortably, tries to laugh it off despite the sweat beading on his brow. “Ahh, well, now here I go. Digressing onto dark topics heh heh…”

 

For a moment he thinks that Marion is about to press the subject and prays to whoever, or whatever, that is still listening that he will not.

 

“Perhaps we should both agree to leave such subjects behind us for now.”

 

The dweller lets out a quiet sigh of relief and nods in agreement. He feels Marion's other hand slide from his back to his shoulder, where he gives the bony joint a comforting squeeze before letting go of him, his gloved hands coming to rest in his own lap. The loss of contact is disappointing, but the dweller manages to keep the negative emotion from showing on his face. At least it helps diminish his blush.

 

“I am curious about the living quarters you mentioned," Marion begins, and the dweller is unsure if he is trying to change the subject, but he is grateful nonetheless. "Would it be possible for me to make use of a room for a few hours? I would greatly appreciate a bed and a good wash.”

 

“Oh, of course! The door leading down to it is just over there,” the dweller says with a point of his finger. “It’s the whole downstairs area, ya can’t miss it. Ah, a bit of a warnin’ though, the rooms are small.” 

 

“That is quite fine.” Marion follows the dweller’s finger with his gaze. After he spots the door he turns back to the dweller. “Anything will be more than enough. Thank you,” he says with a smile as he begins to stand, picking up his helm as he does so. He hesitates once he is up on his feet though, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and glancing between the dweller and the door. “Would it be all right if I came back here? I would rather enjoy continuing our conversation after I clean up.”

 

The dweller’s heart makes a commendable effort to leap out of his chest. He almost cannot believe what his ears heard. “That would be more than acceptable, hunter Marion!”

 

A quiet laugh escapes Marion, and honestly the dweller doesn’t think his heart can take much more. Especially when he feels like all the blood in his body is rushing towards his face.

 

“Then I will certainly look forward to it,” Marion says with a smile and starts off towards the living quarters.


End file.
